


french lavender

by rostropovich



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alcoholism, Alex is a mess, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Use of Derogatory Terms, gibson doesn't die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 04:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15356739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rostropovich/pseuds/rostropovich
Summary: alex and gibson see each other for the first time since the events of dunkirk.





	french lavender

it’s not the first pub he’s been kicked out of. the joints in birmingham were much more lenient with the drinking and the fighting and the drugging and the whoring. alex is too feral to adapt to the quiet pubs with bing crosby playing on the victrola and the football game broadcasted on the radio. it’s not his fault, really, considering his upbring; it’s just his manner. 

either way, there’s no barkeep that has the patience or time to listen to every man’s sob story  _ ( _ not that alex would tell it anyway  _ ) _ so he’s thrown out anyway. alex spits on the backdoor as it slams in his face. he turns and his head spins with drunkenness. he takes a moment, leaning against the grimy alley wall, trying to steady himself. his breath escapes him in wisping clouds of vapour, though his body is warm and tingling. 

cunning eyes sweep across the alley and fall on a dark shape staring at him. it’s gibson. alex’s jaw tightens and his fist clenches. “what the fuck are you still doing here?” he hisses. despite his alcohol - warped mind, he’s embarrassed to be seen like this. and he’s embarrassed to be faced with the man he tried to sacrifice. he’s not sure if he regrets what happened on that beached boat, not yet figured out if that was the right thing to do, but he thinks of it too often for comfort. 

it keeps him up at night, chasing sleep and solace away from him. he always wondered what happened to “gibson”. he always assumed that he had been swept far from the single exit by the strong flow of water and drowned. convincing himself that that was truth made sleeping easier, other times, it was enough to rouse him from bed and into the bathroom to wash the invisible filth of guilt from his crawling skin.

gibson stares at him with eyes that seem to see right through him. it infuriates alex. “why don’t you just  _ go home _ already, you fucking whiteflagger?” he snarls, baring his teeth. “oh, that’s right; you gave it up in six  _ fucking _ weeks!” he’s jarred as a hard fist collides with the apple of his cheek. alex reels, spitting mad as he tastes blood from biting his cheek. “so now you can fight!?” another blow falls on his face and this time, alex loses his balance. the alcohol numbs the pain, but even he knows that it won’t do much tomorrow. he can’t tell if gibson is kicking him now or if it’s the hard beating of his heart in his chest, reminding him that, yes, after all of this, he’s still alive. alex thinks he might be tired of living now, but he’s too scared of dying. the last thought that crosses his mind is how shameful he must look.

* * *

he wakes unceremoniously, simply the opening of eyes. the ceiling is unfamiliar. rain patters against the windowpane. it’s a steady torrent, unchanging in its pitch or fervor. alex realises, with dismay, that the rain will probably linger all day. something hard hits him right between his eyes and he scrunches them shut. his hand feels his face and he realises it’s a drop of water. the ceiling is leaking. he groans and his throat is sore and raspy. alex lets his body roll over out of the slipstream of the leak. the pillowcase is smooth against his face and smells faintly like lavender. his head throbs despite the comfort of the bed. he wants coffee...maybe a cigarette too.

the bed creaks and he feels the mattress depress behind him as if someone is sitting down. alex glances over his shoulder and recoils internally. he turns back with a heavy sigh. “merci,” he says. a hand comes to rest on his shoulder and, with a gentle pressure, pulls him back over to face gibson. alex rifles through his memory, struggling to piece together what little french he knows. “pardon,” he adds, knowing full well that it is much too little to cover the transgressions he has committed against gibson and much too late to ever repair what he has done. that alone makes alex hate him even more. 

he has always been quick to hate. there was little room in his upbringing for anything else. he never had anyone to love  _ ( _ was he even born with love to give? _ ) _ so he hates. he hates his parents for abandoning him and he hates the other boys in the orphanage for stealing his things and he hates birmingham and he hates the gangs and he hates matron gamble and he hates his miserable life and he hates himself for becoming a terrible agglomeration of the world he tried so hard to shun. 

so why does he hate gibson, who is none of these terrible things, who could never be any of those things? 

whatever. alex draws his legs out of the bed and sits on the bedside. he would’ve rose had it not been for the hammering in his head that leaves him immobile, sat beside the frenchman. alex has his head in his hands, eyes closing out the overstimulation of the quiet room with the muted colours. fingers brush across his cheek. alex shies away with a frown, not only from the touch but the sting of pain that the gentle touch conjures. the fingers return and alex is about tell him to stop, but he glances over and gibson is staring at him, staring at him like he sees him. 

alex blinks. gibson scoots forward and, leaning in, presses a kiss to the bruise. his lips are softer than the pillowcase, kissing an apology where he struck alex. gibson pulls away before turning his attention to the other side of alex’s face, kissing the yellow mark on his jaw. he pulls away completely and stares at him. 

it’s a strange form of apology, especially since alex feels like gibson really has very little to be sorry for. he feels like he’s suffocating beneath that stare. it deems him helpless, like an undertow dragging him under the waves. there is no escape from this moment, sitting here next to a man he tried to kill, a man that he has wronged time and time again. even if they  _ could _ understand each other, there is not enough words in either of their languages to tell the toll that gibson has had on alex, so he has to settle. 

alex leans in, still holding gibson’s gaze. “love me,” he says. 

“je fais,” says gibson, and they close their eyes. 


End file.
